Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly, | |
Row’d by two rowers, each call’d ‘Gondolier,’ | |
150 | It glides along the water looking blackly, |
Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, | |
Where none can make out what you say or do. | |
XX | |
And up and down the long canals they go, | |
And under the Rialto shoot along, | |
155 | By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, |
And round the theatres, a sable throng, | |
They wait in their dusk livery of woe, – | |
But not to them do woful things belong, | |
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, | |
160 | Like mourning coaches when the funeral’s done. |
XXI | |
But to my story. – ’Twas some years ago, | |
It may be thirty, forty, more or less, | |
The carnival was at its height, and so | |
Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress; | |
165 | A certain lady went to see the show, |
Her real name I know not, nor can guess, | |
And so we’ll call her Laura, if you please, | |
Because it slips into my verse with ease. | |
XXII | |
She was not old, nor young, nor at the years | |
170 | Which certain people call a ‘certain age,’ |
Which yet the most uncertain age appears, | |
Because I never heard, nor could engage | |
A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, | |
To name, define by speech, or write on page, | |
175 | The period meant precisely by that word, – |
Which surely is exceedingly absurd. | |
XXIII | |
Laura was blooming still, had made the best | |
Of time, and time return’d the compliment, | |
And treated her genteelly, so that, dress’d, | |
180 | She look’d extremely well where’er she went; |
A pretty woman is a welcome guest, | |
And Laura’s brow a frown had rarely bent, | |
Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem’d to flatter | |
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. | |
XXIV | |
185 | She was a married woman; ’tis convenient, |
Because in Christian countries ’tis a rule | |
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient; | |
Whereas if single ladies play the fool, | |
(Unless within the period intervenient | |
190 | A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) |
I don’t know how they ever can get over it, | |
Except they manage never to discover it. | |
XXV | |
Her husband sail’d upon the Adriatic, | |
And made some voyages, too, in other seas, | |
195 | And when he lay in quarantine for pratique |
(A forty days’ precaution ’gainst disease), | |
His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, | |
For thence she could discern the ship with ease: | |
He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, | |
200 | His name Giuseppe, call’d more briefly, Beppo. |
XXVI | |
He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, | |
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure; | |
Though colour’d, as it were, within a tanyard, | |
He was a person both of sense and vigour – | |
205 | A better seaman never yet did man yard: |
And | |
Was deem’d a woman of the strictest principle, | |
So much as to be thought almost invincible. | |
XXVII | |
But several years elapsed since they had met; | |
210 | Some people thought the ship was lost, and some |
That he had somehow blunder’d into debt, | |
And did not like the thought of steering home; | |
And there were several offer’d any bet, | |
Or that he would, or that he would not come, | |
215 | For most men (till by losing render’d sager) |
Will back their own opinions with a wager. | |
XXVIII | |
’Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, | |
As partings often are, or ought to be, | |
And their presentiment was quite prophetic | |
220 | That they should never more each other see, |
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, | |
Which I have known occur in two or three,) | |
When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, | |
He left this Adriatic Ariadne. | |
XXIX | |
225 | And Laura waited long, and wept a little, |
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; | |
She almost lost all appetite for victual, | |
And could not sleep with ease alone at night; | |
She deem’d the window-frames and shutters brittle | |
230 | Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, |
And so she thought it prudent to connect her | |
With a vice-husband, | |
XXX | |
She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, | |
If only you will but oppose their choice?) | |
235 | Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, |
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, | |
A man some women like, and yet abuse – | |
A coxcomb was he by the public voice; | |
A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, | |
240 | And in his pleasures of great liberality. |
XXXI | |
And then he was a Count, and then he knew | |
Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan; | |
The last not easy, be it known to you, | |
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. | |
245 | He was a critic upon operas, too, |
And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin; | |
And no Venetian audience could endure a | |
Song, scene, or air, when he cried ‘seccatura!’ | |
XXXII | |
His ‘bravo’ was decisive, for that sound | |
250 | Hush’d ‘Academie’ sigh’d in silent awe; |
The fiddlers trembled as he look’d around, | |
For fear of some false note’s detected flaw. | |
The ‘prima donna’s’ tuneful heart would bound, | |
Dreading the deep damnation of his ‘bah!’ | |
255 | Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, |
Wish’d him five fathom under the Rialto. | |
XXXIII | |
He patronised the Improvisatori, | |
Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas, | |
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, | |
260 | Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as |
Italians can be, though in this their glory | |
Must surely yield the palm to that which France has; | |
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, | |
And to his very valet seem’d a hero. | |
XXXIV | |
265 | Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous; |
So that no sort of female could complain, | |
Although they’re now and then a little clamorous, | |
He never put the pretty souls in pain; | |
His heart was one of those which most enamour us, | |
270 | Wax to receive, and marble to retain. |
He was a lover of the good old school, | |
Who still become more constant as they cool. | |
XXXV | |
No wonder such accomplishments should turn | |
A female head, however sage and steady – | |
275 | With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, |
In law he was almost as good as dead, he | |
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show’d the least concern, | |
And she had waited several years already; | |
And really if a man won’t let us know | |
280 | That he’s alive, he’s |
XXXVI | |
Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, | |
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) | |
’Tis, I may say, permitted to have | |
I can’t tell who first brought the custom in, | |
285 | But ‘Cavalier Serventes’ are quite common, |
And no one notices nor cares a pin; | |
And we may call this (not to say the worst) | |
A | |
XXXVII | |
The word was formerly a ‘Cicisbeo, ‘ | |
290 | But |
The Spaniards call the person a ‘Cortejo,’ | |
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent; | |
In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, | |
And may perhaps at last be o’er the sea sent. |